


My Only One

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Fluff, Fluff without Plot, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 10:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19945006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: Crowley seems oddly agitated considering the apocalypse has been averted...





	My Only One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [novelogical (writingmonsters)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingmonsters/gifts).



> This is what my brain did with your prompt in the middle of the night, and I consequently discovered that "fluff without plot" is a tag that exists!

“Do sit down, dear. You’ll wear a hole in the floor.”

To his credit, Crowley _did_ stop stalking about (which was a minor miracle in itself) and threw himself dramatically into a chair instead. Aziraphale didn’t even lose his place in his book. After a few minutes, however, the unwavering gaze trained on him did start to become rather distracting.

“You’re staring.”

Crowley mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like (but couldn’t possibly have been) an apology. It was enough to finally draw Aziraphale’s attention from the page.

“If you’re bored, why don’t you go out and make a nuisance of yourself?” Causing a little mild disgruntlement always cheered the demon up, but the suggestion brought a frown to Crowley’s face, his brows drawing into a crease above his sunglasses.

“Is that a polite way of telling me to fuck off?”

His tone fell somewhere between offended and dejected, and it was difficult to tell if he was joking when his eyes were hidden, even after so many millennia of acquaintance.

“Of course not,” Aziraphale quickly assured him, keen to retract any unintended irritation. As much as the demon could sometimes be infuriating, the world always seemed so much… lonelier when he wasn’t around. “It’s just that you seem restless.”

“’M fine.”

Aziraphale wasn’t so gullible that he believed that claim, but neither was he stupid enough to argue. Not when Crowley was in an irascible mood. A placating smile, a nod, and he returned to his book.

It wasn’t really much of a surprise when, not more than five minutes later, Crowley got back to his feet. The surprise came when, instead of starting up another prowl, he appeared right before Aziraphale and dropped down to the floor at his feet, pressing up against his leg and resting his head on his thigh. Startled, Aziraphale finally lost the thread of what he was reading.

It no longer seemed particularly important.

“My dear boy.” Aziraphale spoke softly, afraid to scare Crowley into raising his hackles again. It was a rare thing, for Crowley to allow any kind of vulnerability to show; a privilege that he should feel safe enough here to let down his guard, to so obviously seek out contact. As much as he wanted to ask what was on his mind, Aziraphale reminded himself that patience is a virtue and silently let Crowley take whatever comfort he needed. A moment’s hesitation, and then he reached out, letting his palm settle around the curve of Crowley’s skull, his fingers gently tousling his hair.

It was some considerable time before Crowley spoke into the peaceful quiet. It was little more than a whisper. A confession, perhaps.

“I didn’t like the world without you in it.”

Oh. And suddenly there was the memory, starkly vivid, of how Crowley had sounded when Aziraphale had managed to manifest for those few fleeting minutes whilst discorporated.

Drunk, devastated.

_I lost my best friend._

Aziraphale had been so focused on remaining present long enough to share his information, ensuring Crowley knew to get to Tadfield, that he’d had no energy left for deciphering emotions, but now… Now it struck him.

Crowley had _stayed_ , even after Aziraphale had refused to run away with him, because he couldn't bear the thought of eternity without him. And as much as Aziraphale had tried to deny it, neither could he envisage a future without Crowley.

His harsh words reverberated in his mind – _I don't even like you!_ – and how he regretted them now, regretted turning away from the one person he adored most in the universe. The only one he could truly call his friend.

Perhaps they were both guilty of having been cowards. But there was no longer anything to fear; they had already faced the worst.

And survived, thanks to an Agreement that had, over the millennia, become so much more than a mutually beneficial business arrangement.

Aziraphale’s hand dropped to Crowley’s cheek, fingertips pausing on the arm of his glasses.

“May I?”

Crowley’s nod, when it came, was almost imperceptible, but Aziraphale felt it against his palm. He carefully removed the glasses, placing them safely to the side atop his forgotten book, then met the golden eyes that had become so dear to him, open and exposed as they so seldom were. As _Crowley_ seldom was.

Now, Aziraphale could read everything Crowley was unable to say, see what he himself had been afraid to acknowledge for so long, even when he could feel the strength of it, so potent as to be almost overwhelming.

And, there behind it all, _hope_.

Aziraphale swept his thumb along a sharp cheekbone, finally letting go of every silly argument and excuse he had ever employed, all the years of denial. They were on their own side now, and that actually sounded rather agreeable.

"I can't promise that nothing bad will ever happen again," Aziraphale said, for they both knew that to be the truth. It was all part of a plan that was bigger than any of them, unknowable and, for want of a better word, _ineffable_. "But," he continued swiftly, "I _can_ promise that I will do my utmost to make sure I never leave you again."

Crowley’s eyes searched his, and he must have been able to see the sincerity behind Aziraphale's words, for his lips curled into a watery smile. “Good.” Then he turned to hide his face in Aziraphale’s thigh, his embarrassment incredibly endearing although Aziraphale knew better than to mention it.

“Why don’t you come up here,” he suggested instead. “It surely can’t be comfortable on the floor.”

Crowley shrugged as if he didn’t care about the discomfort (and perhaps he didn’t) but he did turn to eye Aziraphale’s chair in what he was likely hoping was a casual manner. It swiftly turned doubtful for the chair was only built for one, but it was the work of only a very tiny miracle to enlarge it just enough to make space for a slender body.

Crowley snorted a little laugh, but slid up and into the space, and if he ended up pressed closer than absolutely necessary, neither of them mentioned it nor minded.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Queen's 'You're My Best Friend.'


End file.
